


Blindfolds

by Naughty_Yorick



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Blindfolds, Blow Jobs, First Time With Each Other, Kissing, M/M, Pining, Sensory Deprivation, Teasing, Voyeurism, jaskier gets pampered, light dom!geralt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:15:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26180071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naughty_Yorick/pseuds/Naughty_Yorick
Summary: Jaskier was starting to wonder if Geralt had left, or had decided to ignore him, when there was a low voice in his ear. It was close enough that Jaskier felt hot breath tickling his neck, sending tingles down his spine, his skin erupting into goosebumps.“I heard you, Jaskier.”Jaskier knows he's got feelings for Geralt. Which makes things awkward when Geralt asks him to perform privately for him... and a lover. Blindfolded, Jaskier isn't sure what to anticipate - but after Geralt's so-called lover leaves after only a few minutes, it quickly becomes apparent that his plans are quite different to what Jaskier is expecting.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 41
Kudos: 538





	Blindfolds

Jaskier paced the length of the opulent room, casting nervous glances at the huge four-poster bed that dominated the space.

He had been commissioned for this kind of work before, of course. After graduation from the academy, and between stints of adventuring with Geralt, he was a regular troubadour in brothels around the country, providing musical accompaniment to all kinds of things. 

He’d sing bawdy songs in the shared rooms, sneaking drinks and kisses from workers and patrons alike. Occasionally he'd have a sweaty fistful of coins pushed into his hand and be dragged into one of the private rooms for a more intimate performance. These performances varied from client to client - some chose ballads, others something a little more lewd. Some just wanted instrumental accompaniment - no singing at all. 

Some of them wanted him to turn his back and face the wall. Some of them didn’t care, ignoring him like he wasn't even there. Some of them wanted him to watch. 

There was a story passed around between the other singers of a man - a count, or a baron, or a king - who would hire performers to stand at the foot of his bed while he fucked his latest conquest. But the king, or baron, or whichever it was, was madly jealous, and had little trust for the bards he hired. He would insist they be blindfolded - a thick strip of silk wrapped around the eyes. No one, of course, had ever encountered such a request - but it was a good story, and good fodder for a song too. 

At least, he had _assumed_ it was just a story. 

So. This was nothing new. This was nothing _unusual_ , either: nothing compared to the time when he'd been but one in a troupe of six bards hired to accompany a rather exuberant party with at least twenty attendants. It was nothing like the time he'd been hired by a business woman who not only wanted him to sing, but to narrate every action as well, improvising as he went. She’d paid him extra to rhyme, and had been so impressed she'd hired him every evening for the week she'd spent in the city. 

But they were strangers. They were _clients_. Not like this. 

It was - well. He _knew_ Geralt had appetites like his own. It was no secret that he'd slept with noblewomen and sorceresses, or that he frequented the brothels in the towns they visited. He'd _heard_ It, for fucks sake, heard it when they were in adjoining rooms and couldn't stop himself from listening, playing with himself beneath thin sheets, flushed with shame and arousal and pretending it was him in there, between those solid arms. 

The last time was just over a week ago after a messy hunt in some Redanian town. The memory of it was still fresh and urgent. He'd pressed himself against the wall, the cheap, splintered wood digging into his back, his cock gripped in his hand. He tried to muffle his own urgent sounds of pleasure but at his peak had moaned Geralt's name. On the other side of the wall, he had heard Geralt finish too - and the unity of that, of climaxing together,had been playing on his mind these past nine days even though there’d been a solid wall between them. 

And now here he was, dressed only in his breeches and a loose silk shirt, his lute clasped to his chest like a shield at the foot of a four poster bed in the most expensive room available in the city's most expensive inn. 

He would have felt jealous at the idea of Geralt spending such an obscene amount of money to impress his latest lay - but the cost was nothing, for once: Geralt had dispatched a monster that had been laying waste to the county, and a grateful Baron had repaid them handsomely - including the cost of a week's board in the finest inn. 

Jaskier could feel his heart thudding in his chest, his ribs aching and hollow. His bare feet dug into the lush rug. 

He wondered who Geralt was entertaining. The witcher hadn't mentioned anyone by name, but they'd explored the city independently that morning, and he could have run into anyone. His mind drifted, a little bitterly, to Yennefer. She spent a lot of time in big cities - Geralt could have run into her and chosen not to mention it. 

He wouldn’t _need_ to mention it, if it _was_ her. Because he was to be blindfolded. If Yennefer was Geralt’s mysterious partner, Jaskier would be able to recognise her voice. He would have to focus on the singing, on the notes. 

He jumped as the heavy wooden door to the room swung open. Geralt entered, wearing the same tight trousers and dark shirt he'd been wearing all day. Clearly he felt no need to change, despite the opulence of their surroundings. 

Held loosely in one of Geralt’s hands was a thick strip of black, shiny fabric. A blindfold. He passed it to Jaskier, who took it with only a little hesitance. Geralt’s fingers brushed against his own, and suddenly the hair on the back of his neck was standing on end. He rubbed the fabric between thumb and forefinger, nervously. It was very fine fabric: expensive, just like the room. 

“Are you sure about this, Jaskier?” 

_Gods, but he was_. Part of him wanted to refuse - to say he’d changed his mind. Jaskier knew this was a poor idea - putting himself so close to the object of his desire. At least with Geralt’s other lovers there was a barrier there, a modicum of distance so he could pretend it wasn’t happening, could block out the acrid bite of jealousy. To refuse would be sensible. It would save him hurt, down the line. Keep him sane. 

But since when had Jaskier prioritised his sanity? It wasn’t logic that was compelling him now: just lust. 

“I’m sure,” he said, surprised at how sure he actually sounded. “I’ll just…” 

Jaskier slipped the silk blindfold over his eyes, cool against his skin. He could feel his lashes fluttering against it, eyelids pinned down beneath the fabric, and reached around to the back of his head to secure it in place. 

His fingers, suddenly useless, struggled to gain purchase on the slippery material. 

"Let me." 

Suddenly Geralt was behind him. He felt the Witcher's hands on his as he took the silk ties from his fingers and pulled them taught. Jaskier could feel his hands moving against his scalp as he tied a knot. 

"Not too right?" 

Jaskier swallowed, his mouth and lips suddenly dry. He shook his head. 

"And not too loose?" 

He turned his head from side to side, blindly. The silk stayed put - Clearly Geralt had some experience in this. He shook his head once more. 

"Good. Wait here." 

And then he was gone again. Jaskier fiddled with the lute. He could have refused. He could have _easily_ said no - told Geralt to find some other bard - and Geralt would have understood. He wouldn't have forced him to stay. 

But he _wanted_ to stay. He wanted to know what it was like. How it _looked_. Unfortunately, that wasn't going to happen now - perhaps he wouldn't have agreed to this if he knew he was going to be blindfolded. 

No: that was foolish. _Of course_ he would have agreed to it. His nerves - his unease - were brought about by awkwardness and jealousy, nothing else. Perhaps the blindfold would be a blessing: if he was unable to see Geralt's partner, he could more easily imagine himself in their place. 

Was that wrong of him? Was it immoral, somehow, or was it to be expected? Geralt certainly didn't give any indication that he was aware of Jaskier's feelings for him, but Geralt didn't give any indications of _anything_. He hadn't even known the witcher had been planning this scenario - didn't even know he'd found someone to play it out with - until Geralt had pushed a carafe of wine at him across the lacquered table top half an hour ago and asked if he had any plans for the evening. 

The silence of the empty room around him was deafening. He strummed on the lute a few times, trying to settle on a tune. He wondered, suddenly, if he should already be playing when they came in, or start playing when asked? What should he even play? Something lusty and fast, or something slow and drawn out? 

_Oh, Gods. Maybe this had been a bad ide-_

The door opened. He stood up a little straighter, hands gripping at the lute. He didn’t say anything – just listened. Footsteps – one set or two, he couldn’t tell – and then the noise of the door clicking shut, being bolted. Locking him in. 

He wondered if he should say something, or possibly introduce himself, but the words were stuck in his throat. There was a rattling sound to his left; something being carried on a tray, he thought, followed by the noise of clinking glasses and a subtle _glug_ of liquid. _Wine_. 

A sweet smell accosted his nostrils: rosewater and lavender mingling together, followed by a high laugh. It wasn’t Yen. A little of the tightness in his chest dropped away. 

“So this is the famous bard.” It was a woman’s voice – one that he didn’t recognise. That didn’t mean anything, though; he’d tried not to focus too much on the women Geralt entertained. “I’ve heard so much about you.” 

There was a hand on his left shoulder – the woman’s, he thought – which dragged across his back to his right, the nails skittering across the fabric of his tunic. He swallowed. 

“And you must be the beautiful maiden I’ve heard nothing about at all,” he countered, smoothly. 

She laughed, the sound coming from somewhere to his right, behind him. 

“Oh, _no_ , I’m certainly no maiden…” her voice began to move around him, “and how would you know if I’m beautiful or not?” 

Something touched his face, skimming over the silk blindfold, making him jump. She giggled again. 

“I’ve travelled with Geralt long enough to know his tastes,” said Jaskier, turning towards where he thought she was standing, “he only likes the prettiest girls.” 

“Is that so?” Her voice was teasing, and he could hear her step backwards, “Would you agree? You only like pretty girls?” 

“Hmm.” 

Geralt. He’d been silent till now. Hearing him, confirming he was still in the room, made butterflies swirl in Jaskier’s stomach. He could feel himself relaxing. 

“No?” The woman’s voice moved away, “Has he got it right, Geralt?” 

A little sigh – a puff of breath. “He’s half right.” 

There was another quiet noise, then the hand was back on his shoulder, light and delicate. 

“Hmm…” the woman said, mimicking Geralt, “…yes, I can see that.” 

He could feel her moving around him again, circling, then suddenly there was a _twang_. She was plucking at the strings of the lute. 

“Play us a song, bard.” 

“What would you like to hear?” 

“Something _new_ ,” she murmured, “something fresh. Something no one else has heard before.” 

That was a tricky request. He’d been composing most of his songs on the road these past few months, singing and strumming as he walked or writing down snippets of songs in his notebook whenever they made camp. While he was sure Geralt was never actually _listening_ to his composing, he certainly _heard_ enough of it. 

There were, of course, a few songs he hadn't heard. Tunes that lived undisturbed in the notebook, in his own head. Little melodies that were only played out loud when he was sure he was alone, when he was bored in an inn or huddled next to a fire while he waited for Geralt to return. 

The truth of the matter was this: the only songs that no one else had heard before were songs about Geralt. True, _most_ of his songs were about Geralt (it was how he made his coin, after all), but none were quite so intimate as the ones he kept to himself. 

He’d tried, with various levels of success, to make them subtle. Some of them _were_ subtle – they could be played anywhere, and no one would know, not unless they were really paying attention. Some of them were very decidedly _unsubtle_ , all barely concealed metaphors about snow and blood and cat’s eyes. There were a few – fewer than he could count on one hand – that forgoed any semblance of subtlety at all and hurried headfirst into the meat of the matter. 

He avoided playing the ones which left a little more to the imagination even though he was sure – _sure_ – that no one would understand. Geralt didn’t often pay him much mind when he was singing, but on the few occasions Jaskier had caught him listening, he always looked like he really _was_ listening – like Geralt was working the song out instead of just enjoying the tune like the rest of his audience. 

Those songs - both euphemistic and explicit - were intimate, each one a confession. With some of them came heartbreak, with others swirling guilt. Wanting Geralt – _loving_ Geralt – seemed to go hand-in-hand with pain, one way or the other. 

Yet… there was something about the strange anonymity that the blindfold granted him, something about the all-encompassing darkness. He felt almost suspended, slightly apart from his body, from those churning emotions. In the darkness there was no judgement – just him. Jaskier couldn’t see Geralt’s expressions, couldn’t tell if he was watching him or not. It was oddly freeing. 

Jaskier floated along on his own excessive confidence most of the time, but there was always a churning undercurrent of nerves beneath - the fear of rejection, of the fear of being figured out. Those undercurrents had fallen away a little now. He was still _nervous_ , of course, still feeling a little awkward at what he was about to do – but it wasn’t tied to him, not like his own self-doubt. 

He felt _safe_ , like this. Whatever it was Geralt had planned, he knew he could trust him, knew that if this _was_ , in fact, too much, that he could say something and Geralt would stop and see him out, at the very least. Blindfolded and stood in the centre of the room like a living statue, he felt oddly secure. 

It was that security – that and the fact that he couldn’t see Geralt’s expressions – that made him choose a song. His fingers fluttered up and down the strings, getting in place, as he quickly ran through the opening bars in his head. 

The song didn’t have a name yet – he’d always been terrible at naming his songs – but he had a soft fondness for it. It was in its fifth or sixth version now, changing and evolving the more time he spent with Geralt. It was the perfect song for this sort of scenario – a gentle melody hiding turbulent thoughts. It was about love, and lust – an exercise in wishful thinking. 

He strummed once more, then launched into the opening bars of the song. He could hear the woman give out a pleased little giggle, moving away from him. 

The first stanza was, he thought, rather tame - all about longing glances, stolen touches. There was a line about _bathing_ which he was particularly proud of: if only because for him, it felt almost like a code. He wondered if Geralt understood the meaning too. 

As the song swung into the chorus, Jaskier could feel the nerves still falling away. He was always at his best when performing - and this, he supposed, was no different. 

He was midway through the second chorus when a sound caught his attention. He was usually so engaged in a performance that little distractions didn’t bother him, but under these rather unique circumstances it was hard to miss. A wooden creak, footsteps, the whine of hinges in need of a good oiling. The door had opened. He didn’t let it throw him off and continued singing, his hands dancing on the strings of the lute. He wondered what’s going on – if someone else had entered the room, or if someone had left. 

Trying to ignore the thought, he carried on playing, flowing through the bawdier verses, feeling himself growing more confident. He wondered if the woman - Geralt’s guest - knew Geralt well enough to tell what Jaskier was singing about. 

Finally, the song finished, and his hands went still on the strings. His heart was thudding in his chest – it felt strange, and scary, and _thrilling_ to actually play one of those secret songs out loud. He licked his lips, waiting. He wasn’t sure what he was waiting _for_ : perhaps another request, an indication of what they wanted him to play next. As far as he could tell, nothing appeared to be happening. 

Footsteps. Soft, but there, on the edge of hearing. Geralt might be huge and muscled, but his witcher training allowed him to move like a cat, almost completely silently. 

There was an unbidden shudder up Jaskier’s spine. 

The footsteps stopped, followed by the _shff_ of the lock being slid back into place. 

“I, ah…” he hazarded, feeling a little silly, “Geralt?” 

There was a moment of stillness, and then there was a pair of hands gripping onto his lute. He gasped instinctively, taken by surprise. It was Geralt – he was sure of that, because the hands pressed over his own were large and warm and calloused. A witcher’s hands. 

Unless, of course, he really _had_ brought another person in. But Geralt wouldn’t do that; wouldn’t mislead him like that. 

“Let me.” Geralt was closer than he’d thought, his voice clear and low, coming from mere inches away. Jaskier couldn’t help but obey, letting Geralt slip his fingers from the neck of the lute, pulling it out of his grasp. Slowly, Geralt lifted the lute up and over his head, Jaskier blindly moving his arms as Geralt twisted the strap away. 

“I thought you wanted music?” He said, turning to face where he thought Geralt was standing. “Or is it to be unaccompanied vocals?” 

“Hmm…” Geralt’s voice seemed further away now – he was placing the lute down somewhere, Jaskier thought. He hoped it was somewhere safe. “Is that what I said?” 

Jaskier wasn’t sure what game Geralt was playing. “I…you…” he gathered himself. “You asked me to perform for you.” 

Another long silence. 

“Actually…” Suddenly Geralt was right behind, next to his right shoulder. “I believe I said that I wanted you to sing for me.” 

_Oh, gods._

“What about…” he swallowed, heavily, “what about your friend?” 

“My friend?” 

“The woman. The one who smelled of rosewater.” 

“Not a friend. And gone.” 

“She’s… gone?” 

“She’s gone. Do you want me to call her back? I’m sure she’d be… amenable.” 

_No._ “I thought that you…" 

There was a hand on his waist. He shuddered into silence, tensing instinctively. 

"Thought that I what?” Geralt prompted, still somewhere behind him, still close. 

“I thought you wanted…" _God's, there was no delicate way to phrase this,_ "I thought I was here to… play. For you. Both of you.” He took another calming breath, then added, a little lamely, “As accompaniment.” 

Geralt’s hand moved to the small of his back and his fingers caught in the silk shirt, tugging at it. 

“Accompaniment to what?” He asked. 

Jaskier could _hear_ the smile in Geralt’s voice - he could imagine the way his lip would be quirking, teasing him. Geralt’s hand was still on his back, his fingers loosely pressed into his shirt. He wanted Jaskier to say it - to spell it out in a way that neither of them had when actually discussing that evening’s activities. 

“To your…” Jaskier started, trying to find the right words, “To, ah…” 

“Yes?” 

“Fucking.” He said it quickly, hoarsely. Behind him, Geralt chuckled, and moved his hand away. 

"Do you remember the inn, in Redania?" His voice had moved - he’d snuck around to Jaskier’s front without him even realising. 

Jaskier swallowed. "I remember." 

"What do you remember?" 

"The red-haired woman." 

“What else?” 

Jaskier landed on the only thing that seemed to matter about that evening. “We had separate rooms,” he said. “For once.” 

There was a long silence. Jaskier couldn’t say anything – his mouth dry, and there was something akin to adrenaline coursing through him. He was starting to wonder if Geralt had left, or had decided to ignore him, when there was a low voice in his ear. It was close enough that Jaskier felt hot breath tickling his neck, sending tingles down his spine, his skin erupting into goosebumps. 

“I _heard_ you, Jaskier.” 

_Fuck._ “I… I don’t…” 

And then the voice was in his other ear, Geralt managing to move around him without him even realising. 

“I heard you say my _name_.” 

Jaskier was, for once, speechless. _Shit_. Even with the apparent safety of the blindfold, he could sense he was in trouble. The soft, distracted floating feeling was gone. Perhaps this was an elaborate ruse: a punishment, of sorts. Payback for the way Jaskier had invaded Geralt’s privacy. He’d never really known Geralt to be one for these sorts of games – he was more _shout now, shout a little bit more later_ – but perhaps this was a step too far. Perhaps Jaskier had, finally, pushed too much. 

Jaskier’s mouth opened and shut uselessly as he tried and failed to come up with a reasonable response. Denial was useless, now: Geralt’s hearing was superb, and they both knew what he’d heard that night in the inn. 

“Geralt, I…” he stuttered, “I’m sorry, I didn’t-” 

A finger on his mouth. He fell immediately silent. Geralt’s hand was warm, his finger slightly calloused, gentle on his lips. 

“Did I ask for an apology?” 

Jaskier’s heart was thundering in his chest. The spot where Geralt touched his lips felt like it was on fire. 

“You said my name, Jaskier,” Geralt repeated, his voice low, “and you couldn’t even see what was going on in there…” His hand moved away from Jaskier’s lips and up his face, brushing across the blindfold. 

Jaskier could feel all his nerves tracking the movement of that hand, that maddening hand. 

“How long did you know for?” Jaskier asked, trying to keep his voice steady. “When did you realise I was…” 

“Joining in?” 

Jaskier swallowed. “...yeah.” 

“It didn’t take long,” said Geralt, “The wall was thin. You must have been pressed right against it.” 

“I was,” Jaskier admitted, quietly. 

He was sure he heard a little start in Geralt’s breath - a hitch, virtually unnoticeable - and then the pressure of his hand on Jaskier’s face was gone. He strained his ears, listening for Geralt’s footsteps. Nothing. If Geralt _was_ moving around the room, he was doing it completely silently. 

“I was wondering,” said Geralt, the sound coming from somewhere to Jaskier’s left, “if it was the voyeurism. I told myself it was the woman…” and then he was somehow on Jaskier’s right, “but it wasn’t either, was it?” 

Jaskier floated, suspended in darkness behind the blindfold. Perhaps if he’d been able to see Geralt’s face, he wouldn’t have admitted to it. 

“No,” he said, “it wasn’t. It was never anything else.” 

“How many times?” 

Jaskier didn’t even hesitate. “I don’t know,” he said, truthfully. “A few.” 

“Just a few?” 

“Several.” 

“Why?” 

Jaskier was in too deep now. There was no going back. He didn’t _want_ to go back. Perhaps if Geralt knew all his dark, churning secrets they’d be easier to ignore. Perhaps Geralt’s secrets mirrored his own. He needed to know. 

“I wanted what I wasn’t allowed to have,” he said. He sounded confident - more confident than he was feeling. He set his shoulders, straightening his posture, moving his head to track the sound of Geralt’s voice even though he couldn’t see him. 

“Something you weren’t allowed to have…” Geralt’s voice was quiet and steady, “and couldn’t even see.” 

“I could imagine.” 

“Imagine me?” Geralt asked, clearly now walking in circles around Jaskier, “or imagine you?” 

Jaskier licked his lips. “Guess.” 

Geralt was behind him, suddenly, his hands placed loosely on Jaskier’s hips. He fiddled with the silk shirt before tugging it out of the waistband of his breeches, pulling it free. His fingers lingered on the hem for a moment before moving away, moving around, one hand drifting softly from Jaskier’s hip, across his back, over the other hip and then around to his front. 

Then the ties - the simple cord that fastened the shirt at the neck - and fluttering fingers barely touching Jaskier’s chest. He could hear the sound of the cord being pulled from the fabric, followed by the noise of it hitting the floor. And then Geralt stopped - his hands resting feather-light against Jaskier’s shoulders. 

He was waiting. Earlier, when he’d stood at the foot of the bed with his lute gripped in his hands, Jaskier had thought that if he’d told Geralt he couldn’t do it, that Geralt would have understood - would have let him go. And now he knew that if he told him to stop - if he told him to fuck off and threw the blindfold at his feet - Geralt would _still_ let him go. 

Jaskier raised his arms in what he hoped was a clear gesture. Geralt’s hands swiftly moved down, bunching in the fabric, then pulling the shirt up and off, carefully maneuvering it from Jaskier’s arms. Jaskier heard the shirt fall to the floor at his feet. 

He stood shirtless in the centre of the room, waiting. He wondered what would come next - if Geralt would run his hands over his skin in the same way he had the fabric of the shirt. He was prepared for the touch, the anticipation of it lighting him up. 

There was a sudden radiant warmth at his side - the heat of a hand very deliberately _not_ touching him. Then he heard Geralt’s voice - no louder than a whisper, right beside his ear. 

"Do you want this? If not, I can-" 

"Don't stop." Jaskier was breathless, aware of the neediness in his voice, the fluttering of his heart in his chest. 

“And this?” There were fingertips at Jaskier’s temples, pressing into the silk blindfold. 

In the darkness, Jaskier made a choice. “Keep it on,” he said. 

Geralt murmured something - not even a word, just a pleased little noise - and Jaskier tensed, waiting for Geralt to touch him. 

But he didn’t. The warmth to his side moved away, and Jaskier was left once more in the darkness, alone. The expectation made him feel jumpy, aware of every movement in the room, every breeze, even the tickle of the rug against his feet. He rubbed his fingers together, waiting. 

And then - the ghost of a touch, on his lower back. Barely even enough to register as a touch. Then another, on his hip, then between his shoulder blades, then his shoulder, his arm, his hand. Then two at once: a brush against a hip and an elbow, both shoulders, on either side of his ribs. Somehow, Geralt’s fingers were on his back and the sensitive skin below his navel at the same time, then a collarbone and a wrist. 

It was like Geralt was everywhere and nowhere: he moved silently, slowly, never giving his position away. The speed of the soft, rapid touches made it feel like there were several of him, all caressing and moving and brushing gentle hands along Jaskier’s skin, each movement deliberate and purposeful. 

He shuddered, feeling the hair on his arms stand on end as his body grew more and more sensitive, anticipating every touch, however light it was. 

Then Geralt appeared to change tactics. The fluttering caresses stopped, and then a single finger was dragged down Jaskier’s spine from his hairline to the edge of his waistband. The simple movement made him shudder, his shoulders wriggling, back arching. He heard Geralt give another low laugh - the only indication of where he was standing before his hands had moved on, dancing over Jaskier’s shoulders. 

It was maddening - this waltz of not-touches, jumping around his body. Part of him wanted to reach out to grab Geralt, but he held back, keen to see what would happen next. 

Something pressed into his collarbone. The tips of Geralt’s fingers, resting there in the dip of the bone, then tracing the line along his chest and up, coming to rest just below his ear. Jaskier couldn’t help but lean into it, pressing his face into Geralt’s palm. Geralt’s fingers twined in his hair for just a moment, then that too was gone, back down the neck, across a shoulder, down his left arm. 

The touch was so light it tickled the soft spot in the inside of Jaskier’s elbow, but he didn’t laugh or jerk away. One of Geralt’s hands wrapped around Jaskier’s wrist, and he found the arm being raised up. He flexed his fingers experimentally and suddenly found them stroking the hard edge of Geralt’s jaw, peppered with a few day’s worth of stubble. Jaskier wanted to feel more, to move his hand to the back of Geralt’s head where he could tangle his fingers in his hair, but his wrist was being held in a firm, gentle grasp. 

And then there was a new heat tickling the inside of his wrist. Warm - almost _damp_ , which was an absurd way to describe heat. The heat was followed by the soft brush of something new - not fingers, not hands, but _lips_. Geralt’s mouth trailed slowly down the inside of Jaskier’s arm. It wasn’t a kiss, just a _brush_ , like a taste of things to come. When he reached the crook of Jaskier’s elbow, Geralt began the slow journey back to his hand, and this time his lips moved, still not kissing, but not _not_ kissing either. 

Jaskier could feel his own pulse trapped, frantic and fluttering, between Geralt’s thumb and fingers. When Geralt finally reached that spot, he loosened his grip, replacing his digits with his lips. And this - oh, this _was_ a kiss, Geralt’s lips parting around Jaskier’s skin. 

Jaskier could feel himself coming apart beneath Geralt’s smooth strokes, and the kiss was too much. He groaned, unable to hold it back, and the intensity that had been building around him like lightning sparked in his core. His cock had been hardening since Geralt’s first, cautious caresses, but now it was undeniable, aching, needing more. 

He heard a low hum from Geralt, the sound vibrating into his wrist. He sounded smug. Jaskier half-hoped he would let him go, stop this wonderful torture, but isntead Geralt repeated the movement, this time pressing his tongue to Jaskier’s pulsepoint. Jaskier wondered if this might be how he died - if his legs might give way beneath him and he’d simply collapse into Geralt’s arms. Finally, Geralt moved away, slowly lowering Jaskier’s arm back down to his side. 

Jaskier felt like his skin was on fire, like he could feel the air on him, tickling him. So when Geralt’s arms were suddenly and firmly wrapped around him he could do nothing but give out a small, overwhelmed whimper - a gasp of surprise. 

“Hold on.” 

It was all Geralt had to say. Jaskier wrapped his arms around him and suddenly felt himself being lifted up, one of Geralt’s arms pressed into his back and the other hooked behind his knees. The sensation of being carried while blindfolded was unusual but not unpleasant, and soon he was being gently deposited on the bed. 

Jaskier had been correct in his assumptions that the bed was a luxury - the sheets beneath him were cool and satiny, a relief against his overstimulated skin. He felt the bed sag as Geralt sat beside him - or knelt, or lay - he really had no idea. 

Geralt ran a hand up his arm, coming to rest on Jaskier’s jaw. Jaskier licked his lips, opening his mouth - an invitation. He felt Geralt move beside him and his heart thundered in his chest as he anticipated the kiss which had to come, but the touch that he’d expected on his lips came on his collarbone instead. Then his sternum, then his ribcage, moving across his torso in a haphazard zig-zag of kisses. Geralt’s lips found his nipple and brushed against it, once lightly, then with more force, and Jaskier bucked his hips as the sensation only deepened his arousal. 

There was a shift beside him, and the bed moved, and suddenly there was pressure on either side of him. Geralt was straddling him - he could feel his knees sagging the mattress next to his hips and Geralt’s warmth of his crotch pressing into Jaskier’s legs. Jaskier felt Geralt’s long hair tickling his chest as he leant down once more, and now in a more sturdy position he repeated the movement - pressing an open-lipped kiss against Jaskier’s nipple. Jaskier’s breath caught in his throat, and again he tried to move, but trapped beneath Geralt’s form it was all he could do to rub against him, the friction pushing him even further. 

Geralt’s lips moved further down Jaskier’s torso, covering it in butterfly kisses. He paused after pressing a particularly intense kiss just to the side of Jaskier’s navel. Jaskier wanted to beg him to continue, to stop teasing him so, but he could barely get the words out - and then Geralt’s tongue was on him, licking the width of Jaskier’s torso from one hip to the other, skirting the waistband of his breeches. 

A series of low, wanting noises escaped Jaskier’s lips, aware of how close Geralt’s face was to his cock, which was making a valiant attempt to escape his trousers. Then the pressure of Geralt’s body on his was gone, the gap filled with cooling air, leaving only his hands pressed into Jaskier’s hips, holding him down. 

For a long while, neither of them moved. 

And then Geralt’s hand, swift and sure, cupped Jaskier through the fabric. Jaskier thrust into his hand automatically, eager for more. Geralt’s other hand began twisting the ties of Jaskier’s trousers, tugging at them. 

“Jaskier.” Even without being able to see him, Jaskier could _hear_ the lust in his voice. “Can I…?” 

He didn’t even need to finish the question. “Yes,” he gasped, “Please, Geralt, _please.”_

The cord that kept his trousers off was pulled away in an instant, and Jaskier could feel Geralt tugging at the fabric. He only realised his cock was out with the sudden feeling of cool air against the burning skin, and only had a few moments to enjoy being free from the confines of his clothes before Geralt’s hand was wrapped around him, giving Jaskier _just_ enough pressure to make him squirm beneath him. 

Geralt started to move in slow, rhythmic strokes. Jaskier’s breathing grew heavier as he gulped down air, feeling himself hurtling towards the edge. 

“Sing for me, Jaskier,” Geralt growled. 

“Geralt…” He stuttered, and then Geralt’s hand was replaced with something hot and wet and - _gods_ \- Geralt was sucking him off. 

Simply _knowing_ that fact was enough, and it only took a few more strokes of Geralt’s hand paired with the attentive movements of his tongue before Jaskier’s hips jerked and he was coming into Geralt’s mouth. He half expected for Geralt to pull away in disgust, but he didn’t - he held his mouth there until Jaskier was finished, then gently removed his mouth with another, light kiss. 

Jaskier slumped against the bed, utterly spent, feeling his heart thundering in his chest. There was an unexpected pressure on his temple, the soft movement making his over-sensitive skin twitch, and then the blindfold was pulled away. 

Half-blinded even in the dim light of the room, he stared up at Geralt, who was propped up on one elbow, watching him. As Jaskier watched, Geralt licked his lips. It was a small movement - _nothing_ compared to what Geralt had been doing with his lips just a few moments prior, but it was that thought of where those lips had been that made the movement so indecent. 

Before Geralt had a chance to say anything, Jaskier surged forwards, wrapping an arm around Geralt’s shoulder and pulling him into a kiss. 

It was better, somehow, than all the lingering touches and tiny kisses and Geralt’s mouth wrapped around him. There was no preamble, no hesitant testing and teasing - just pressure and dancing tongues and the relief of finally knowing what Geralt felt like beneath his lips. 

Jaskier finally pulled away and slumped against Geralt’s chest - who was still fully dressed, he realised - breathing heavily. Geralt stroked his hair soothingly, the other arm wrapped tightly around him. 

“You okay?” Said Geralt, leaning his head on Jaskier’s. 

“Yeah…” said Jaskier, “Yes. Marvellous, really. Just…” 

“Overwhelmed?” 

“A little.” 

Geralt didn’t say anything, just pulled him closer. Jaskier didn’t know how long he spent pressed against Geralt’s side, letting him stroke his hair and murmur calming nonsense at him. 

Finally, he spoke. 

“Why?” He said, breathlessly, giving word to the question that was buzzing around his head. 

“Why what?” 

“Why all this?” said Jaskier, aware that Geralt’s hands were still on him, “the blindfold, the woman… why not just ask?” 

Geralt sniffed. “Because I didn’t know what you liked,” he said, after a brief pause. “And with the secretiveness, I assumed…” He shrugged. “I thought perhaps _seeing_ wasn’t the part you liked. Maybe it was the other way around.” 

Jaskier could feel himself flush. This elaborate set up was all for his benefit. “And the woman?” He probed, curious. 

Geralt laughed, quietly. “Hmm...” he said, “I wanted to see what you’d do.” 

“You were just… what, messing with me?” 

“You _were_ listening to me fuck, Jaskier. I couldn’t let you get away with it.” 

Jaskier spluttered, somewhere between outraged and amused that Geralt had managed to set him up so thoroughly. “You… you could have just _said_ , Geralt! Threaten to, I don’t know, beat me up in an alleyway or something if you caught me doing it again…” 

“Perhaps,” muttered Geralt, “but then I’d have missed out on this…” His fingers danced up Jaskier’s side, making him shiver. 

Jaskier wanted to argue, but couldn’t help but find himself agreeing as Geralt’s feather-light touch moved up and down his torso. 

Another thought came to him. 

“How did you know?” He asked. 

Geralt turned to look at him, a little smirk on his face. “Know what?” 

“About the blindfold _thing_. _I_ didn’t even know about the blindfold thing until you got it on me.” 

“Really? You’ve never done that before?” 

Jaskier shook his head. 

“It was…” Geralt paused, thinking. “It was that story you keep telling me. About the King. Or the Lord. The one who blindfolds the bards who play for him.” 

Jaskier frowned. “What?” 

“Did you not realise how often you tell that story?” 

“I… I didn’t, no,” said Jaskier, shaking his head. “Gods, I’m oblivious. Oblivious about my own sexual proclivities, how humiliating.” 

“Hmm,” said Geralt, reaching for him, stroking a hand up Jaskier’s bare chest, “you never know until you try.” 

“Is that so?” Said Jaskier, with a smirk. “In that case…” He grabbed the blindfold that still lay between them on the expensive sheets, and deftly untied the knot at the back. “Turn around.” 

Geralt did as he was told. 

**Author's Note:**

> Ahh this one has been sitting in my drafts for an age but I love the concept so needed to finish it. I really hope y'all like it <3 You can find me on Tumblr at [a-kind-of-merry-war](https://a-kind-of-merry-war.tumblr.com/)!


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